The Swans of Fifth Avenue(38)
Truman’s face was truly gleaming now; he seemed to grow five inches.
“Oh, I do love Tiffany’s.” He sighed as he followed Babe’s lead; she strode surely down the center aisle, not stopping to look in any of the cases, for naturally, Mrs. William S. Paley did not shop like mere mortals; there were private rooms and corridors for her, employees whom the regular shoppers would never see. Hidden doors, soft chairs, teacups, and jewels brought out on velvet trays, just for her. Truman had never known this world, until he met her. “Oh, Truman, one never buys jewelry in public. It’s so dear of you, though, to think of it,” she once told him, when he wanted to pop into Van Cleef to buy her a trinket. And far from being offended, he was grateful for the advice. He’d told her that she was the “best finishing school in the world,” and she’d beamed.
“Tiffany’s is like a country club for the gods,” Truman said with a sigh. “I always think that, when I’m here.” And Babe smiled; the wooden paneling always did remind her of a club. A rarefied, exclusive club.
“Third floor,” she instructed the elevator man, who nodded and pressed the button. “I told you, Truman, dear, that I’d been asked to design a little display upstairs?”
“No, you didn’t, Bobolink. How thrilling!”
“Not really,” Babe said with a wry smile. “They asked several ‘society ladies,’ as I believe they refer to us. Gloria did one, and so did Marella.”
The elevator opened and they stepped out; in the display cases were exquisite place settings of china and crystal and silver, all tastefully illuminated. There was a room off to one side, where a young woman, clad in a dress, hat, and gloves that made her look forty, not twenty—already dressing for the role, Babe decided—sat with her mother, obviously registering for wedding gifts.
Babe slowed down and took Truman’s hand in hers; she was already smiling, anticipating his reaction, when she led him into another room and pointed to the display.
There, amid several boring, uninventive set pieces (Marella had set a wicker table with a china pattern of yellow roses and grapevines—“How typically, revoltingly Italian,” Truman whispered, while Babe shook her head in admonishment; Gloria Guinness’s table setting was equally uninspired—“La Guinness can’t disguise the peasant in her,” was Truman’s pronouncement even as Babe tried to shush him), was a flowered chaise longue that Truman recognized from Babe’s bedroom at Kiluna. Next to the chaise stood a round table holding a full place setting of bone china with a lattice-worked border, along with a silver coffeepot and a crystal glass filled with orange juice.
On the chaise longue, half-opened, was a copy of Truman’s book.
“Breakfast at Tiffany’s!” he squealed, his face pure joy; he laughed so delightedly, from his belly, that the smattering of hushed, earnest shoppers all turned his way. But Babe didn’t care; she had done it. She had surprised him, delighted him. Given him something back—given him back himself, the assured, triumphant self that had fled him the morning after, leaving him hollow and empty and so sad.
“Oh, Babe, you dear! You love, you perfect creature! I’m utterly delighted. Tickled to death, spank my bottom and call me Daddy!”
“I’m so glad you like it,” Babe said, her face flushing with accomplishment. She couldn’t help but think of how much time she’d put into this “silly little thing,” as she’d pronounced it to one and all. How she’d racked and racked her brain to come up with something different from the expected, and how pleased she’d been when she’d hit on the idea. She’d longed for weeks to tell Truman about it, but now was satisfied that she’d waited until just the right moment to share it with him.
“Now, let’s go see that movie,” she said, and he nodded as they left, pausing only to sign one or two autographs from patrons who had finally recognized him. With each signature, his eyes sparkled just a bit more.
So did Babe’s.
—
THE MOVIE TRUMAN CHOSE was Pinocchio. That old Disney cartoon. She was mystified as to why; as to why he dragged her downtown, somewhere around the Bowery, and insisted on hailing a cab instead of phoning for a car. Babe pretended to enjoy riding in the big yellow taxi, making sure that a game “let’s see what happens next!” expression was arranged on her face. But she was fearful the entire ride that she’d sat in something dreadful, like gum, or a squished candy bar. Or worse.
The theater was in what she would euphemistically call an “interesting neighborhood.” There were many young Negro children playing in the street, all by themselves, no parents or nannies in watchful attendance. Rusty cars and delivery trucks dominated the landscape, and the apartment buildings were all in dreadful condition, some of them with broken windows, torn awnings; all had filthy, crumbling stoops.
But she followed Truman into the theater, which was surprisingly clean and spacious and empty. They had an entire row to themselves. The lights dimmed and the movie commenced, the old story about Geppetto, longing for a son, and the Blue Fairy, who granted the wish, and Jiminy Cricket, who yearned to be a conscience—and Pinocchio, the wooden puppet who comes to life.
Babe hid a yawn, not very interested in the movie, although she hadn’t seen it before. She was more interested in Truman’s rapturous face as he gazed at the screen, the movie’s images reflected in his tortoise-shell eyeglasses. He laughed delightedly when Pinocchio went to Pleasure Island, and by the end, when the Blue Fairy granted Pinocchio his wish and turned him into a real boy and Jiminy Cricket was crooning “When You Wish Upon a Star,” Truman grasped her hand and began to sob uncontrollably.